


Mangoes and Other Love Languages

by tumbleweedfarm



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ancient Village AU, Cuddling in Trees, Falling In Love, M/M, long haired oikawa, love is stored in the mango, please don't ask me what this is I don't know, probably??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28587828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumbleweedfarm/pseuds/tumbleweedfarm
Summary: Hajime is five when he first sees the boy. He lays on his back, under one of the village’s oldest mango trees. The twisting branches cast gnarled shadows over his scrawny frame. He stares through the long leaves with an intensity to rival the afternoon sun.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 11
Kudos: 52





	Mangoes and Other Love Languages

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a threadfic, then it ended up being over 3k and I just decided to slam it here. Enjoy!

Hajime is five when he first sees the boy. He lays on his back, under one of the village’s oldest mango trees. The twisting branches cast gnarled shadows over his scrawny frame. He stares through the long leaves with an intensity to rival the afternoon sun. 

His mother pushes him toward the stranger. “It’s good for young boys to make friends,” She says. “Go say hello.”

Hajime holds tightly to the linen of his mother’s skirt. He does not want to talk to this strange boy with his strange stare. 

His mother squints. “Alright, Hajime. Can you please go pick me a few mangoes for breakfast, then?”

This, he can do. He’s climbed every branch of the old tree that he can reach. He scurries over to the lowest one and steps up. The smooth bark feels good under his bare feet. 

The boy on the ground keeps his eyes trained on the highest branches. Hajime pretends not to care. 

Four mangoes hang heavy from long stems. The sun has settled low into the branches of the old tree, sweetening the fruit with summer rays. Hajime gathers them up and tugs them free. 

The boy on the ground still doesn’t move. Hajime slides off the branch and hits the dirt harder than usual, to see if he can startle him. Nothing, not even a twitch. 

Hajime turns to go back to his mother, only to find her missing. He feels like he’s missing something, too. 

“Hey,” He grunts. “What’re you looking at?”

The boy squints his eyes further, the first movement Hajime has seen out of him. A bug is scuttling dangerously close to the boy’s swooping hair. Hajime doesn’t tell him. 

“My mom says the mangoes at the top are the best,” The boy sits up to lean on skinny arms. 

Hajime stares. He knows this, of course. Everyone in the village does. 

“Of course they-“

“I’m gonna reach it,” The boy meets Hajime’s eyes for the first time. There’s something in them that he doesn’t yet have the words to place. 

“Reach what?”

“That one,” The boy points to the furthest fruit, on the highest branch. “When I’m bigger.”

“Stupid,” Hajime scoffs. “It won’t be there then.”

The boy smiles. Hajime throws a mango at him. 

On their second meeting, Hajime learns the boy’s name. Oikawa Tooru, the boy’s mother introduces him as. Hajime’s mother is elated that her son has a friend. Hajime wouldn’t call him that. 

The Oikawa’s home is very bright. The food they serve is arranged neatly in bowls, laid out on low tables for the Iwaizumi’s to taste. Their mothers pluck almonds from a dish and chatter about things Hajime doesn’t understand. 

Oikawa Tooru, as Hajime learns, is very loud. He bounces around like the crickets that chirp outside the window at night. He’s annoying, Hajime concludes. 

He doesn’t have an explanation for why he listens to every word the boy says. 

Iwaizumi Hajime is strong. That’s what his parents say. It’s what the village elders say when he stops by the shrines to pray. It’s what Oikawa says when they reach a higher branch on the oldest mango tree. 

Hajime has long since stopped trying to shake Oikawa off his tail when he climbs the trees or walks out by the nearby hills. It’s less lonely, anyway. Not that he would ever admit it. 

At age eight, Hajime starts working in the fields with his father. He could have waited another two years, but he likes the work. There’s something satisfying and pleasantly grounding in a careful harvest.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa whines when he hears about Hajime’s new post. “I’m gonna be lonely all by myself!”

“Go get your own job,” Hajime chucks a walnut at him. “Maybe you’ll stay out of my way.”

Oikawa pouts. His hair drops down over his eyes. Hajime flicks him in the forehead. 

At eleven, Oikawa’s nephew is born. 

The local families, Hajime’s included, bring sweet breads and fruits as blessings. The birth of a healthy child in the village is always something to be celebrated. 

The new parents sit on soft furs on the floor of their home, while the baby is tended to by the grandmothers. Hajime approaches on careful feet and offers bags of dried meat and fruit. 

Oikawa’s mother takes the two boys back to see the new baby. Takeru, they call him. He’s small and pink and squirming, seemingly too fragile to hold something like a name. 

“I’m an uncle now, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa taunts, “That means I outrank you until you’re an uncle.”

“That doesn’t make sense, dummy.” Hajime grunts, reaching down to poke at Takeru’s tiny hand. “I don’t have siblings, anyway. I can’t be an uncle.”

Oikawa considers this. “I guess you can be his uncle, too, then.”

Hajime doesn’t mind that idea at all. 

When they’re twelve, the nobles make a visit to the village. They’re here on some official business, things that Iwaizumi and Oikawa are told they do not understand. 

The noblemen glide through the dirt roads in gleaming silks and precious metals, leaving shoe prints in the earth. Hajime is very aware of his own bare feet on the ground. 

“Iwa-chan! Hurry up! I wanna get a good view!” Oikawa grabs the back of Hajime’s shirt and drags him to the mango tree. Suddenly, their bare feet are perfect for scrambling up the branches. 

“One day, I’m gonna have jewels like that,” Oikawa sighs. He drops down from his seat and hangs upside down by his knees. 

“You haven’t even gotten to the top of the tree yet, dumbass,” Hajime grumbles. Oikawa snorts at the word that recently made its way into their vocabulary. His face turns red with laughter and pooling blood, and Hajime looks away. 

At fourteen, Oikawa is taller than Hajime. This is, of course, an outrage. 

“Oh, little Iwa-chan,” Oikawa’s voice cracks, but he continues. “If only you had my height, you and your strength could woo every girl in the village!”

“Oh, yeah?” Hajime taunts. “It’s probably just your stupid hair.”

Oikawa sucks in a monumental gasp and releases it in a giggle. “I bet I can reach a higher branch than you can!”

It’s a stupid bet, now. Their young, lean muscles have carried them up most of the branches of the oldest trees. Still, Hajime leaps for a branch just above his head and hauls himself up. 

Deep within their favorite tree is the perfect spot for two young boys to sit and talk about things they are not supposed to understand. The branches curve up and down in comfortable chairs, woven by the tree’s will. 

Oikawa settles on a branch, leaning back and letting his legs dangle on either side. The sun hits his body in starry patterns through the leaves. 

“Do you like any girls, Iwa-Chan?” 

It’s strange that this topic hadn’t come up until now, at least not directly. Hajime hadn’t really given it much thought. There were other things to worry over, for example, keeping Oikawa out of trouble. 

“Haven’t been paying much attention.”

Oikawa doesn’t dwell on his passive answer. He starts talking about their long hair and their soft skin, and Hajime thinks about how Oikawa’s hair is long when it’s down, and his skin is soft when they wrestle into the dirt. 

He wonders why his stomach feels cold. 

At fifteen, Oikawa becomes Tooru. Not on purpose, of course, but even the most accidental of words cannot be taken back. 

Hajime takes ill on a sweltering day, not far from the trees he loves. His skin flushes hot and dry, moisture sucked from his shaking limbs. Stars cloud his vision, swirling into the dirt. 

He really shouldn’t have gone out with Oikawa today. He should have listened to his aching bones, but that nagging competitive spirit won’t let him-

“Iwa-chan!” 

He barely feels the ground when he hits it. It’s almost welcoming, despite the pebbles digging into his arms. The stars have taken over his vision, rendering him a useless heap in the dirt. 

The little rocks are starting to pinch. He should really get up, but the heat is pushing him deeper into the ground. 

Suddenly, the discomfort on his skin disappears with muted brushes and, judging by what little sense he had left, the feeling of being lifted. 

Oh. Oikawa is carrying him. He feels cooler than the blistering heat under Hajime’s ribs. 

The next two days blur together in a flurry of water and what little fruit he could keep down. It’s sweet, fed to him by gentle hands. Heat ripens the mangoes just as well as it saps the body. 

The first thing that’s clear is a hand on the back of his head. Too large to be his mother’s, too gentle to be his father’s. It pushes him up, in view of a long piece of tawny hair. 

“Tooru?”

He doesn’t mean to say it, probably shouldn’t have, as the name wedges itself between his hair and the hand tangled in it, sending him crashing back onto the mattress. 

Hajime tucks Tooru’s rushed apologies into the back of his mind and allows his dazed mind to finally take in his surroundings. 

Tooru’s hand is back under his head, the other tinted yellow and sticky from the mango he had been preparing. There are too many questions for his tired eyes to try and answer. He leans back into Tooru’s palm, and sighs. 

At sixteen, Hajime’s mother sits him down and tells him about love. That it is unyielding, and difficult, but also the most rewarding and beautiful thing. 

Love will bring him along on journeys he does not expect, it will tear him apart, it will hold him up. 

His mother tells him that one day, he will find someone who embodies the beauty and the trials of love in his own eyes. 

The thought is distant until it terrifyingly isn’t. For every description his mother had for love, his mind put Tooru’s name under his tounge. 

The discovery changes everything and nothing. Hajime pays more attention to his parents, and the little ways they love. A brush of a hand at the back of the neck, a hair tucked behind the other’s ear. It seems so within reach, and yet it feels so distant from Tooru. 

He wants to change that. 

The highest branch of the oldest tree was reached long ago. It seems like a childish milestone, now. Hajime thinks of all the time they spent trying to be gods, when he feels so utterly human now. 

Tooru’s skin is golden in the setting sun. He’s toying with a little rock on the ground, eyes closed to the glare cast over them. Hajime feels it, that urge to look away. This time, however, he keeps his gaze steady. 

The shapes the sun carves move oh-so-slowly across freckled skin. One of the words his mother used floats through his mind. 

Beautiful. Tooru is beautiful. 

Hajime doesn’t know why he reaches out, but it feels so right that he doesn’t think twice. His calloused thumb swipes over tooru’s nose, down across his cheekbone. 

Tooru doesn’t open his eyes. He raises a hand to hajime’s wrist. Hajime’s heart stops, thinking, just briefly, that Tooru will pry him away. 

Terrifying. Tooru is terrifying. 

But he doesn’t move him away. Instead, he turns his face into hajime’s palm, and brushes his lips over sweat-salted skin. 

The air rushes out of Hajime’s lungs faster than it should have. Heat blooms under his palm, threatening to burn him up. He lets it. 

Tooru finally, blessedly, opens his eyes, pupils adjusting around the fading light. When did Hajime get that close? 

It doesn’t matter. Tooru pulls himself up so, so slowly, and brushes his lips over Hajime’s. He’s searing. Hajime’s eyes pinch shut. 

Hajime feels every ounce of what he should have called love pool in his jaw as he surges forward into Tooru’s kiss. It’s unpracticed, but sure and laced with the determination of two young men racing to the tallest branch of the oldest tree. 

Tooru pulls away first. Hajime revels in the soft smack of his lips, once again exposed to air. He lets the distance drag his eyes back open, and nearly faints at what he sees. 

Tooru’s eyes are half-lidded and glazed, skin dusted pink under freckles. This time, it’s not from the sun. 

And Tooru is beautiful. 

At seventeen, they are more lost than ever, but in good company. Their mothers share knowing glances and sly smiles, but it doesn’t matter. Hajime can finally look his fill, and it warms him. 

They sit in the dips of their favorite spot in their favorite tree, the same starry patterns scattering over a very different scene. Instead of sitting on opposite branches, they tangle together, weaving right in with the old bark. 

Hajime discovers his endless patience for Tooru’s antics, and his own endless capacity for touch. He relishes every press of his own lips against Tooru’s shoulders, every push of his fingers through his hair. 

Today, Tooru sits with his back against Hajime’s chest, a hand reaching back and tangling in dark locks. Hajime doesn’t stop to think about how they fit together without ever saying a word. 

Takeru thinks it’s disgusting. He says he hates love, and will never let it happen to him. Tooru laughs, and it’s so, so beautiful. 

Tooru cranes his neck back, and Hajime presses a mango-sweetened kiss to his lips. 

“Hajime.” He breathes, gentle and quiet. This, too, was new. The name and the gentleness. But Hajime has long since stopped counting the firsts, as Tooru has taken them all. 

At nineteen, Hajime’s mother sits him down once more to talk to him about things he is supposed to understand. How he will have a home soon, and will be expected to provide for himself and anyone else he chooses to harbor. 

Tooru was never even a question. 

Still, the feeling of bare feet against the dirt becomes more and more apparent. He feels small, like he did when he and Tooru first saw the nobles striding through their streets. 

What little money Hajime has comes with him on a trip to the market. It’s a rare event, only full of faraway treasures and goods once a year, when the monsoon winds carry ships across great distances. 

Usually, Tooru comes with him. Tooru comes with him to most places now, anyway. But not today. Today, Hajime wants to get something special. 

He strolls around the stalls, marveling at gold and spices, things he is not allowed to understand, for he cannot pay. 

Finally, his gaze lands on a cart of large, reddish fruits. The vendor is tending to another customer, so Hajime stands back and watches. The vendor, a burly man with a long beard, skillfully slices a small knife through the skin of the fruit, sectioning it and pulling it apart with a satisfying crack. 

The inside of the fruit is lined with deep red seeds, shining with fresh juices. They look like rubies in the afternoon light, and Hajime is moving forward before he can even think about it. 

Wordlessly, Hajime hands over the listed price for a single fruit. The vendor tells him it’s a pomegranate, the very fruit that kept Persephone in the underworld. 

Hajime doesn’t know who this Persephone is, but he knows the seeds will look better than the jewels they mimic in Tooru’s hands. 

Hajime walks back to the mango tree faster than usual. He knows Tooru will be there. He’s always there on days like this, where the summer heat weighs heavy on tired legs, demanding they rest in the shade. 

“Hajime!”

And, once again, Hajime is swept up in long hair and soft skin. 

“Tooru,” He mumbles, planting soft kisses on freckled cheeks. “I missed you.”

“Where did you go?” Tooru asks, eyeing the heavy burlap in Hajime’s hands. 

“The market. I know-“ He cuts off the inevitable whining. “But I got something for you.”

Hajime pulls the heavy fruit from his bag to display it for unsure eyes. 

“It’s a pomegranate. There’s some story about it. I can’t remember now.” Hajime shrugs, pulling out the knife from his bag. 

“Tell me your own, then.” Tooru laughs, pulling Hajime down to the ground with him. 

Hajime pauses, thinks. Then, as he makes the first slice, he weaves his tale. 

“Long ago, there were two boys. They were quite poor in the eyes of the nobles, but rich in the ways that matter.” 

The knife slides carefully around the circumference of the pomegranate. It’s not nearly as skilled and quick as the vendor, but the thick skin yields. 

“One of the boys wished for jewels and riches. The other, silently, promised them to him.”

Hajime digs his thumbs into the severed halves, ready to pull the fruit apart. Tooru holds in a quiet breath. 

“They got older, and the second boy realized he can’t afford jewels.”

The fruit pries open with a crunch. 

“He can get the next best thing.”

The pomegranate Hajime bought is even more richly colored than the one the vendor cut open. The seeds glitter, and Tooru lets the air out of his lungs. 

“It’s beautiful. What does it taste like?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried it yet, dumbass.” Hajime laughs. 

Tooru’s eyes light up. He takes Hajime by the shoulders, carefully pushing him backward toward the trunk of the mango tree. Hajime goes willingly. 

“You first, then.” Tooru whispers. Hajime’s mind blanks as Tooru settles down on his lap, bracketing his legs with his own. 

“It’s yours, Tooru.” 

“Shh. Let me do this for you.” Tooru whispers. He grabs a tiny handful of seeds from the open fruit. Some of them pop and stream red across his palm. Hajime ignores the urge to lick it off. 

He reaches for the seeds in Tooru’s hand, but he’s stopped. Slowly, Tooru lifts the fruit to Hajime’s lips. 

Oh. 

Hajime, as usual, doesn’t think twice. He takes the seeds from Tooru’s hand, letting them tumble into his mouth. He presses them against the roof of his mouth with his tongue, and a heavy tartness floods his senses. 

“Is it good?” Tooru must see something in Hajime’s face, because his brow is tilted and his eyes are glinting. Hajime nods. It’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted, and yet it still isn’t as pleasant as Tooru’s lips on his own. 

Without giving Tooru room for argument, Hajime takes a handful and tilts them toward Tooru’s lips. Hajime feels the peek of a soft tongue against his palm. 

“Oh,” Tooru’s eyes widen at the new taste. “That’s amazing!”

Hajime would spend every bit of money he has left to see those eyes, full of love and laughter, for the rest of his life. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. Because Tooru is right there, on his lap and in his arms. 

And Tooru is so, so beautiful. 

That, Hajime is meant to understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: @tumbleweedfarm_


End file.
